


The World's Worst Prostitute

by toggledog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toggledog/pseuds/toggledog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is shocked to hear, from Sally, that Sherlock has a record for prostitution. Sherlock explains that he refused to actually engage in any sexual activities with his clients. The most he would allow is a hug, or touching of hair. After all, why would Sherlock allow sexual activity with those he wasn't attracted to? </p><p>Based on a kinkmeme prompt: Sherlock as the world's worst hooker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World's Worst Prostitute

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this kinkmeme prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?view=128548102#t128548102
> 
> This is my strange attempt at humour. Enjoy!  
> References to "The Adventures of the Six Napoleons"

On the return to apartment 221b, both Sherlock and John were uncharacteristically quiet. Usually, Sherlock liked to brag about his ingenious detective work, with John dutifully listening, and adding in the odd compliment. In terms of Sherlock’s brilliance, the solving of the recent case was in no way abnormal. He had deduced that the ‘victim’ was, in fact, no victim at all, but rather the perpetrator, faking his own death, to frame his ex-wife’s new lover.

Within minutes of entering the taxi, Sherlock had started to chat about the case, but quickly lapsed into silence, when John did not respond. The doctor’s mind kept running over Sally Donovan’s final words to him, as he left the station. Certainly, he was aware that Sally detested Sherlock, particularly after his ‘resurrection’, in which he proved that the entire police force had been conned by the true arch-villain Moriarty, making them appear like fools, in the media, in the process.

“He wasn’t always a ‘consulting detective', you know.” Sally had sidled up to John, as he walked past. Sherlock and Lestrade were a good three metres ahead, and so did not hear their exchange.

“You’re still trying to convince me that he’s a sociopath?” John laughed at her.

“He has a record. I should show it to you, if you like. Prostitution.”

“Oh, that is ridiculous.” John laughed.

“Ask him. He’ll tell you.”

John told himself that she was lying. Obviously. He was rather irritated with himself that her attempt to rattle him had worked.

_Sherlock, a prostitute? That’s…_

No. It simply did not compute, in his mind. Sherlock giving himself up, giving his body, allowing other men to touch him, fuck him.

John felt an odd acidic taste enter his mouth, his stomach twisting painfully.

No, Sherlock didn’t have sex. Sherlock didn’t even think about sex.

The entire time that he had known Sherlock, he had never seen him so much as kiss another human being. The closest he came to having a relationship of any kind, was with a lesbian dominatrix.

John already had the money in hand, as soon as the taxi pulled up to the curb. Sherlock was not going to break precedent that day, clearly. As soon as the taxi stopped, he opened the cab door and climbed out, headed straight for the front door and leaving John to pay the fare.

She’s messing with your mind, he told himself, as he climbed up the stairs to their shared apartment. Once inside, he flopped down on the couch.

Prostitution indeed. He snorted.

He watched his brunet friend fiddling with the strings of his bow.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, to the point, as always.

“Just… Sally, causing trouble as always.”

“What did she say this time?”

John considered telling Sherlock. Why not? He didn’t think Sherlock could be offended by that terrible woman.

“She said…She said you were once picked up for prostitution.” He deliberately tailed off with a laugh.

“Oh…well, technically, she’s not right.”

John shot straight up to a sitting position on the couch and swung around to look at him.

“What do you mean technically she’s ‘not right’?”

“As you know, John, before I became a consulting detective, I had a rather… colourful existence.”

“So you…?” He could feel his heart inexplicably hammering.

“I say technically not, because I told my clients straight up that I would not provide any sexual services. No oral or anal sex. No manual stimulation. In fact, I would not contact their genitalia in any way whatsoever. Nor would I engage in kissing with them.”

_Clients?!_

John found himself momentarily unable to compute what he’d just heard, in his mind.

“So you… weren’t a prostitute then…”

“A lot of my earlier clients said so. They seemed rather…irritated that I would not engage them in any way.”

John placed his fingers over his temples. His head felt strangely murky. “How did you meet your clients?”

“I advertised in the local paper. Under a false name, of course. I did eventually get regulars. It became rather profitable.”

_Profitable? Oh no… Sherlock…_

“So you did eventually…provide…”

No. Perhaps he didn’t want to hear the answer, to think of another man… doing such… not to Sherlock…

“Oh no. Well, my regulars liked me to hug them or stroke their hair. Or they would touch my hair.” He shuddered. “My main work was to listen to their pathetic lives. Their apathy to their jobs and family, their desires to either kill themselves or others. It was all. So. Boring.” As he said the last three words, he swiped three notes on his violin. “One day, Lestrade and his idiot officers raided my place, after a tip, from the neighbors. They found me, hugging a client, as he sobbed, in rather embarrassing fashion, onto my shirt, and assumed that we had just had sexual relations.”

“So, you were a prostitute, who never actually engaged in any sexual practices.” John could not explain the relief that washed over him. “Sounds like you were the worst prostitute ever.” He started to giggle.

“I certainly did not wish to engage in any of those relations with the kind of clientele that I had.”

“I just find it odd that an asexual person would want to be a prostitute to begin with!” John continued to laugh.

“I hardly call myself asexual. I simply did not wish to engage with those men. I would engage with you, only you appear to be more towards the heterosexual side of the Kinsey Scale.” Sherlock said it so matter of factly, that John thought that he’d misheard, at first.

“You would…”

_Oh boy. Oh my._

“I told you that I am too heavily invested in my work, to begin a relationship. But that did not preclude me being attracted to you.”

“So you don’t want a relationship but you’d be more than happy to have sex?”

_This is… Oh boy._

Sherlock suddenly started to strum on his violin rather viciously. John turned back on the couch, feeling a thrill run through his body, a familiar feeling… that he could no longer deny.

He popped his head back up over the lounge. “What if…” He began, so loudly, that Sherlock instantly stopped strumming on his violin. “What if I’m not so heterosexual, on the Kinsey Scale as you think…?"

For a moment Sherlock did not speak, he simply appraised him with his beautiful pale eyes. “If you wish for sexual relations, then I would oblige.”

John could not help but smile. Only Sherlock could phrase the tentative change from friendship to lovers, in such a cold fashion.

“I think…”He stood up from the lounge chair and walked over to where the other man stood. “We should start with a kiss, and see what happens from there.”

John reached up to touch the high cheek. He could see uncharacteristic anxiety in the pale eyes, in the expression that Sherlock was clearly attempting to hide.

“It’s ok.” John said, reaching in to peck at his lips. “We can go as slow, or fast as you like.”

###

Twenty minutes later, both lay panting on the couch, trousers and shirts undone. John leant forward for a lazy kiss of that very kissable mouth, exalting in Sherlock’s taste of caffeine and toothpaste. They had not gone as far as he’d liked, simply brought each other to completion with each other’s hands. Even so, he told himself to take this slowly. He wanted more. Not just the sexual side of Sherlock, but all sides.

John forced himself to admit the truth. He wanted the one thing that Sherlock had told him he was too involved with his work to have. A proper relationship.

But isn’t that what you already have? His mind countered. You’ve simply added in the sexual side.

“At that point, my work was all I had.” Sherlock easily deduced John’s thoughts. “But now, I do want more.”

“So do I.” John said, reaching up to run a hand though the dark curls.

###

The next crime scene was rather gruesome, indeed. An elderly man lay in a puddle of blood, on his front doorstep, his skull caved in by a Napoleon bust, that now lay in pieces around the body. John simply stood back and allowed Sherlock to work his magic. He could not help the great smile on his face. Watching Sally’s sneer, he deliberately walked over to her.

“You were wrong, you know. He was never a prostitute.”

“So the sociopath convinced you, did he?”

“And I have you to thank. If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have realized our feelings for each other. And I would be pleased for you to stop speaking so ill of my boyfriend.”

He then deliberately stepped away, smiling even wider, hearing the exclamations of those around her, at the revelation.

Fin.


End file.
